Open Writing

That August was the time that Flo and I started minding babies. The higher and grander the perambulator the better. Duggy Burke's was the most impressive pram in the neigbourhood, a gorgeous coach-built Silver Cross. Shiny navy blue and highly sprung, it was be-decked with chrome and mock ivory. When the sun shone Mrs. Burke erected the pale blue canopy to protect Duggy's fair head.

I loved Duggy's hair, and thought it looked like a baby chick's fluff. Douglas was a much loved first baby, but my mother said she thought Mrs Burke suffered from delusions of grandeur.

Every day the pair of us would say, "Where shall we go?" We knew it would be the cemetery. Warrington cemetery was enormous. There were, we knew, at least two famous people buried there, George Formby's father, a music hall comedian, and Steve Donaghue, a champion jockey. Both had imposing gravestones. Inside the cemetery the wide paths meandered for miles. It was quiet and deserted. We would run wildly with the pram while Duggy shrieked with excitement.

There were thousands of graves in all shapes and sizes, from plain,puritanical crosses to palatial family mausoleums. Angels, soldiers, shields, beautiful maidens, tiny baby angels and stone flowers and curlicues galore decorated this enchanting place. Because we were in charge of a baby in an imposing baby carriage, we discovered it endowed the pair of us with respectability too. Old ladies and gentlemen smiled benignly at us. Flo and Betty with our neat fringed bobs - Flo's blonde, and mine auburn; both of us looking so very innocent.

We adopted neglected graves, and gave them a wash and brush-up. Taking a few flowers from a number of well tended graves, we filled abandoned jars with water and arranged our purloined blossoms meticulously. Then admiring our handiwork, we stepped back beaming: "There, that's much better!"

One morning I realised that Flo was up to something. She kept smiling, and touching her blazer pocket.

"What is it? What have you got in there?"

"It's a secret, I'll tell you later."

"When? Why later? Why not now?"

"We'll have to wait till Duggy's asleep, he mustn't see." She leaned over the pram and beamed at Duggy, tickling him under the chin, "Isn't that right, Duggy darling?"

"Oh! Don't be so daft! Why mustn't he see?"

Flo glared at me and hissed: "He might tell his Mum."

Infuriated I shrieked "He's only nine months old; he can't even say Da Da"

"Da Da," piped Duggy.

"See what I mean," said Flo. She put the brake on and walked behind one of the gravestones. I followed in a high and mighty manner. "When he can talk, he might remember and tell his mother," Flo' whispered.

From out of her pocket she produced two cigarettes and a book of matches.

My eyes widened, "Where did you get those from? You didn't buy them did you?"

"No, I took them out of my Uncle Jack's cigarette case; he won't miss them. My mum say's he smokes like a chimney."

Looking suitably self-righteous, I mumbled, "I don't think we should."

Flo curled her lip in disgust. "That's because you're too scared to smoke. I smoke all the time."

With a withering look of disbelief I stalked back to the pram, and then hurriedly returned. "It's alright, he's asleep. Come on, I know a good hiding place."

It was a secluded seat beside a large Dutch elm. As a precaution Floturned the pram around, so that he couldn't see us if he woke up - 'Just in case.' Then like experts we lit up. Taking good strong puffs, we proceeded to smoke.

Flo's face went a peculiar shade of green, and she said she felt decidedly queasy. Throwing the half smoked cigarette upon the ground, she stamped on it. I ran behind the tree and threw up. As smokers we discovered we weren't very successful. Both of us agreed that Uncle Jack must be crazy if he enjoyed doing that sort of thing.

The next day I took Duggy out on my own for a walk. Friday was one of the days I ran messages for Mrs Jones, our next door neighbour. She was a lady crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. For this I was paid sixpence a week. There were three shops to go to: the baker's, the Co-Op and the butcher's.

In the baker's I bought six little cream sponge cakes and a loaf, and laid them on the pram. Then I looked into the sweet shop window, deciding what to buy later on with my sixpence.

Looking at Duggy, I noticed that he had cream on his face, and was beaming at me. Opening the bag with the cakes, I saw with horror that one tiny bite had been taken out of all six cream cakes. Duggy was obviously much brighter than I realised.

Miserably, I knew the only solution to my problem was to go home and surreptitiously take the money out of my money-box, without Mum seeing me - no easy task. Then I must buy some more cakes and finish the shopping. After all it wasn't Duggy's fault, he didn't know any better.

So that was what I did. Mum was busy cleaning the front upstairs windows and I managed to raid the Colman's Mustard tin which passed for my money box, without discovery.

I swiftly returned to the baker's shop. Only this time, I didn't put the shopping onto the pram, but carried the bag carefully on one hand. After my trip to the Co-Op, I put the loaf and cakes into the carrier bag with the rest of the shopping, and carried it into the butcher's shop.

After delivering it all to Mrs Jones it was lunchtime and I felt quite tired. Arriving home, I found that Eve had arrived home unexpectedly on leave, which was really exciting. She had been made a sergeant, and her hair was now short and blonde. She called it an Eton Crop. It really suited her and she looked beautiful.

The following Monday morning I arrived bright and early on Mrs Burke's doorstep but before I had time to ring the bell, the front door was flung open, revealing an irate-looking Mrs Burke standing there.

"Yes?" she said sharply.

Smiling, I said, "Please may I take Duggy out for a walk, Mrs Burke?"

"No, Betty Skinner, you may not. Last Friday you left Duggy outside the butcher's shop, where my mother-in-law found him. Fortunately for you, he was unharmed. But if you think I'd ever trust him again to you, then, my girl, you are sadly mistaken." And with a bang she slammed the door.

Alas, yes, in my frustration I had forgotten poor little Duggy. It was a salutary lesson I learned that day and one that I would remember for the rest of my life. I made sure never to entrust a young child with the responsibility of my babies when they were small. And it quite put me off minding babies!